


I've Got A Feeling (Are You Feeling It Too?)

by Firalla11



Series: Dreamwidth Transfers [5]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Chicago Blackhawks, M/M, Soul Ink, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-06 21:36:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17353037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firalla11/pseuds/Firalla11
Summary: Andrew,he reads, scrawled on his skin in blue-black not-ink.





	I've Got A Feeling (Are You Feeling It Too?)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'Saad/Shaw - tattoo.' Another of those fics that's complete on it's own, but feels like there could be a little more to it. We'll see?
> 
> Title from Billy Currington's "[I've got a Feelin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFHBzVZMXk8)"

“Bathroom’s free,” Brandon hears, though he wishes he didn’t. It's too early to be awake.

He groans and sits up anyway, knuckling at his eyes. Andy’s looking at him kind of strangely, but it’s too early in the morning to figure out what it means. It’s just Andy being Andy, probably. It’s part of his charm.

Brandon levers himself out of bed, grabs the clothes he took out last night, and heads into the bathroom. He feels a little more clearheaded once he’s in the shower, then out of it again, water washing away some of his sleepy slowness.

He dries off and gets dressed, brings his hand up to wipe the condensation off the mirror, then he freezes, gaze catching on the splash of black ink on his skin.

At least, it used to be a splash, an odd-shaped smudge the size of his thumb, just like everyone has from the moment they’re born, different in shape, in colour, but _there_.

His– it’s not a smudge anymore though.

It’s a name.

 _Andrew_ , he reads, scrawled on his skin in blue-black not-ink.

Brandon stares, face-heating. Holy _shit_. It’s not– it’s not the first time his mark has shifted, formed a letter or a symbol or just another formless shape, but it’s the first time it’s become a name. The only time it ever will. Names are permanent. They’re the reason the not-ink, the marks exist at all, ever-changing tattoos until a match is met, until a match is made and the not-ink is set.

And Andrew– Andy has to know, right? That’s what that look meant, before, when Brandon wasn’t awake enough to interpret it.

He takes a breath, trying to calm down, to breathe through his excitement and his nerves, as if there isn’t a chance this could be one of the most important things to ever happen to him.

He pushes the bathroom door open and steps out, breathing a relieved sigh when he sees Andy’s shoes still sitting in the hall.

He heads into the bedroom. Andy’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to Brandon, facing the far wall. Brandon bites his lip. “Andy?”

“Hey,” Andy says. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t lift his head.

Andy’s– not giving him much to go on. Brandon swallows, tries to ignore how nervous this is making him. Andy’s not acting like himself.

He moves further into the room, past Andy’s bed, over to his own, and sits down opposite Andy, his feet flat on the floor.

Andy’s staring at his hands in his lap– staring at his mark, a name now too, rather than the thin bracelet that used to circle his wrist, a bright, eye-catching blue.

He’s not making any effort to hide it – he never has – but it’s– it’s different now. Now that it’s Brandon's name on his skin.

He takes a steadying breath. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He wants this, but he can’t read Andy’s face. Can’t even see his face _to_ read it. And he doesn’t know what Andy’s silence means.

He watches, hands twisting in his lap, as Andy inhales, long and slow, watches his shoulders move, then he speaks, still looking down. “You noticed,” Andy says.

Brandon swallows. “Yeah, I noticed.”

He’s still lost for words, for anything else to say. Andy’s usually the one to keep their conversations going. He’s good at it. Brandon loves that about him.

“Pretty weird, huh?” Andy continues. His voice is smaller than Brandon's ever heard.

Brandon takes another breath, fighting to keep a straight face, though it doesn’t matter if Andy won’t _look_ at him. “I don’t know,” he says, slow, measured, heart in his throat. “I think– maybe it’s not so weird?”

Andy’s eyes snap to his. There’s curiosity there, Brandon thinks. Hope, too. Suddenly it’s easier to breath. Andy wants this. He’s trying to pretend he doesn’t, for whatever reason, but he _does_.

They’re going to be okay.

“No?” Andy asks, still muted.

Brandon shakes his head, lets himself smile. “No. I mean, who else would it be? Who else would I _want_ it to be, huh?”

He bites his lip, tips of his ears burning – maybe that was too much too fast – but Andy’s beaming at him, so. Maybe it was exactly the right thing.

“Oh,” Andy says, his thumb brushing over his mark, over Brandon's name.

Brandon tracks the movement, the looks back up at Andy’s face. Andy’s watching him back. His own cheeks are pink now.

Brandon takes a breath, then he stands, crosses the distance between their beds and sits beside Andy, pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee. He knocks his ankle against Andy’s, grinning when Andy nudges him back. “What? Did you think I’d be unhappy or something?”

Andy bites his lip, inclines his head, and that– hurts, a little bit. It’s something they’re going to have to think about, talk about, but later, maybe. It can wait, at least until he reassures Andy.

“I’m not unhappy,” Brandon says. “I’m the exact _opposite_ of unhappy, Andy.” He nudges him. “There was no chance this was _ever_ going to make me unhappy. I meant it, earlier. I’m not– there’s no one else I’d have wanted this to be.”

He gestures with his wrist, feels Andy take a breath, then he looks up, meets Brandon's gaze. “Me neither,” he says, and there’s a surety there that makes Brandon's breath catch.

Andy grins, makes an aborted move towards Brandon’s wrist. He pauses with his hand halfway outstretched, eyes darting up to Brandon's face. “Can I?”

Brandon nods. “I’d love it if you would.”

He holds out his wrist, tries not to blink as Andy’s fingers brush against his name, bright blue not-ink flowing down his fingertips, leaving his name intact on Andy’s wrist, while the blue mixes through the black, brightening, highlighting every curve and arch and turn of Andy’s name, giving colour where there hasn’t been before.

“Wow,” Brandon murmurs. He touches his wrist, then looks up at Andy. Andy’s nodding eagerly before Brandon can say a word.

He reaches for Andy’s wrist, for the bright blue of his name. He touches it, holds his breath as his not-ink trails down his fingers to meet Andy’s skin, flowing through, over Brandon's name on his wrist, darkening the letters, solidifying every thin line, giving them weight. Steadying them. Supporting them.

He drops his hand to his lap once it’s over. He doesn’t know what he wants to look at more: his name on Andy’s wrist or Andy’s name on his; it’s surreal, but he’s happy. So, _so_ happy. And judging by the look on Andy’s face, Andy is too.

Andy looks up at him and smiles, keeps smiling. “We should–”

He breaks off when one of their alarms goes off.

“Go down for breakfast,” Brandon finishes, grabbing his phone off the table between their beds and silencing the sound.

“Yeah, that,” Andy says.

It's a long moment before either of them to get to their feet.


End file.
